


Sharpshooter

by Spazzcat



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spazzcat/pseuds/Spazzcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd underestimated his opponent, a fact he realized too late. And he hadn't counted his shots.</p><p>Cross-posting from FFnet</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpshooter

Alfred's heart pounded rapidly, keeping pace with the muffled thump of his feet against the packed earth as he hurtled through the gaps between the trees. Even with the protective armor plates covering his torso, the pack carrying his sniper rifle and the last of his missiles, already fitted into its launcher, banged painfully against his already-bruised back with each stride. The silence of the forest around him did not fool him for a moment as he strove to put some distance between himself and his adversary, desperate for a few moments to formulate a new strategy. Already the conflict had been drawn out far longer than the easy victory the confident American had predicted as his seemingly weak opponent had managed to hinder, avoid, or outright put a stop to every one of Alfred's tactics so far.

 

Reaching a low spot in the floor of the broad valley serving as a battleground, the blonde flung himself behind a sturdy oak, pressing his back into the bark and clutching the mid-range assault rifle tightly to his heaving chest. As he fought to suppress his laboured breathing lest it give away his location to other keen ears, his own ears strained to pick apart the sounds around him in search of muffled footsteps, cracking twigs, any signal of the presence of the other close by, One hand brushed briefly over the handgun holstered at his left hip, unused as his opponent skillfully refused to be drawn into close quarters, before resettling his grip on the rifle and angling his head to peer past the edge of the tree.

 

A glint of light off his glasses was the only signal his enemy needed, a projectile flashing past a fraction of an inch from Alfred's face and slamming itself into an ash tree further back with a heavy thunking sound against the wood. Throwing himself back behind the tree, Alfred swore and bolted deeper into the thick woods, dodging and weaving in an effort to keep out of the sights of a long-range rifle whose unseen wielder was much too close for comfort. More shots taken at his retreating back added an uneven staccato rhythm to his heavy footfalls as they plowed into trees or buried themselves in the earth, some coming so close as to graze the camouflage patterned cloth of the American's uniform.

 

Ahead, an old rock fall protruded outwards from a low cliff, forming a natural wall that Alfred hurled himself over in a practiced one-handed vault. Rolling swiftly back to his feet, the American flung himself against the cold stones and opened fire over the top, counting on the large open space ahead of the treeline to give him warning if the other attempted to close, and the rifle's auto-fire mechanism to accomplish what accuracy could not against his well-hidden enemy.

 

The fates were not on his side that day, the rifle launching only two wild shots into the thick underbrush before the mechanism clattered emptily. The blonde hurled a few smite-worthy imprecations at whatever higher powers might be in the neighbourhood as he fumbled to wrench a fresh clip from his ammo belt and jam it in place of the empty magazine.

The delay cost him too many precious seconds. Raising his eyes to the treeline once more, his gaze met a pair of mud-splattered combat boots resting on the rock pile in front of him. The feel of a cold gun barrel pressed to his forehead froze him in place and a voice, soft but smug as all hell as it said simply "Checkmate," was the last thing Alfred heard before the trigger was pulled, launching the weapon's payload into the American's skull at point-blank range and knocking him to the mossy ground in a heap.

 

"That was a cheap shot." Alfred growled, picking himself up off the ground and reaching up to pull the brightly coloured foam dart off his forehead.

 

His opponent laughed, jumping down from the rock pile and shouldering his sniper rifle as he offered the American a hand to pull him to his feet. "How is my taking advantage of your inability to count your own shots or reload a NERF rifle a "cheap shot" exactly?"

 

"I don't know, but it is." Alfred accepted the hand with a childish pout. "I'm the hero, remember Mattie? The hero is always supposed to win!"

 

"Except in a NERF gun fight against a Canadian, apparently, even one who only has a sniper rifle." Matthew smirked, elbowing Alfred in the ribs and earning a glare from the sturdy blonde. "Now help me find all those darts."


End file.
